Beautiful Arrow

A poem I thought of while remembering the battles on the field.

On the field quietly flanking,

She stands, bow in hand, 

She smooths her hand to her belt,

Fluidly grasping her arrow,

She pulls it from its quiver. 

Eyes on her target,

She knocks her arrow 

And gracefully draws her bow,

She stares blankly down the shaft of her arrow,

Before loosing her deadly arrow.

Never taking her eyes away,

She watches as it impales

Her victim to the heart.

A smile curving her lips,

She watches as he falls

Before turning quickly to draw her sword,

To slice through another,

An endless pattern of terrible beauty.